aroundthebloc

            If you looked upon my face, might you then see the horror that so pervades my inner being?  I know already that you could not, for so hidden is my secret that no mortal eye can discern it.  But I see, with consummate horror, the wretched duplicity concealed within my thin cage of flesh.  For I, the great writer, lover of beauty, unrestrained drinker of the nectar of truth, am all too aware of that other self I conceal.  I have seen him as he mercilessly cuts and slashes, leaving his signature of scarlet fluid upon the body of the maimed and bleeding manuscript.  For I, the elite and respected Dr. Henry Pencyll, am also that hideous and despicable monster, Mr. R. O. Tide.

            It was not always like this.  Nay, once I was free, unhindered by any knowledge of the imminent rending of my own soul.  I wrote freely, for the chains of spelling, syntax, and style had not yet closed themselves about my wrists.  I could write of what I saw, and the words came fluidly to my fingers.  Yet, the brittle lead of my pencil and the ever present eraser were foolish burdens for an artist such as myself.  The temptation of that thin layer of rubber proved a stumbling block to all my efforts.  I lost the delicate care and precision I had cherished during my youth, for the promise of the eraser lay always before my eyes, should any mistake befall my writing.  In despair, I turned to ink.

            For a time, this new medium was the answer to my every problem, a panacea for all ills.  When minute changes to my prose demanded that an entire page be condemned to the wastebasket, the prudence of thoughtful writing was returned to me.  But alas, just as all of God’s gifts when taken to excess will become vile, so then did this one.  For as my prowess in composition grew, so also did a dangerous confidence.  This confidence fed upon my continual successes until I felt that nothing could hamper me in my literary career.

            I was young at this time, as I have said before, and up to this point, the only readers of my various stories and essays had been my family and closest friends.  How could they but laud my every syllable?  Were they not so blinded by their love for me that they could not see those faults that were so evident to the unbiased eye?

            Never before had I laid my work out for review; but, now, at last, I deigned that it was time for my artistic banners to be unfurled before the world.  I pored over all I had ever written, relentlessly and ponderously selecting only the finest of my work, so chosen that each individual page could not help but elicit a tear of deep sorrow or a laugh of incomparable joy.

            With reverence, I arranged my works and sealed them within a padded manila envelope, which I addressed to a publisher of diverse and wonderful books, among whose volumes I had spent many a gladsome hour.  With dreadful impatience, I awaited the day when a response should come.

            And come it did.  A large package was addressed to me, and I received it with shaking arms.  The parcel’s size made my heart leap—until I discovered that its thickness consisted of naught but my original manuscripts, crumpled and discarded.

            I was stunned and could not at first understand what had transpired.  From among my writings there slipped two, then four, five slips of paper, covered with writing foreign from that of my own hand.  I snatched them up, madly scanning the notes, searching for an explanation.  My eye fell upon phrases like “nice idea, but the grammar needs a lot of work,” “poorly contrived plot,” “rewrite this part,” and “have no place for this sort of writing at this house.”  I read these lines several times before I could comprehend their meaning.  I had been rejected!

            For a few moments I was dumbstruck by this revelation.  When my wits returned to me, I tore up the editorial suggestions in a rage.  The blind fool!  Rules of syntax are mere vassals of the realm of thought, not its monarchs! 

            In fury, I resolved to destroy all I had ever composed.  If men were so blind that they would not see the truth contained in each page, they should not read my work at all.  I snatched up two handfuls of my papers and stormed toward the fireplace.  As I prepared to cast my writings into the flames, I paused, for no man can take upon himself to undertake such an eradication of art without doubting his intent in some deep place of his heart.

            In those few remaining seconds, a voice bade me stay my hand.  Though I sensed this foreign voice came from the inner recesses of my heart, I could not help but heed its command.  The voice was not much different from my own, but it had about it a calculated, almost mechanical coolness that brought chills to my body.  Yet, still I listened to it.

            Do not destroy your life this way, it said.  If you flee from this challenge, you will never be whole.

            Who are you? I asked.

            I am he who makes beauty visible to those who can see it not.  I am he who meshes the rigid-faced rules of man with the uninhibited freedom of art.

            Where do you come from?

            I am within every man and woman who has ever tried to present a kernel of truth, but has been ridiculed for awkwardness of speech or informality of script.

            What do you wish of me?

            I demand only that you allow me to assist you.  I will make your works so grand that no man, however blind, can fail to weep or sigh at your words.

            All strength seemed to leave my body as I listened to this man whose passions were the same as my own.  Though my mind might have protested, my heart willingly accepted his offer of help.  My arm moved, and I am sure it was not of my own design.  It was this newly found friend, moving through my own body to enact the necessary changes.  I looked upon the paper with new eyes, and I began to rewrite. 

            I soon knew him well, and called him by his name: R. O. Tide.  I do not now know if this epithet was a morbid fancy of my own, or by the creature’s own choosing, yet this name I allowed him.  At the end of each day, I called him, and he came to me, and through my own hands he would edit my work.  Where I had left infinitives, split and torn, rent nearly in two, he weaned them back to health.  Where my participles dangled, threatening to plunge forever into the abyss of incoherency, he rescued them, pulling them up, inch by inch, to safety.  All these things he did, and did well, and I was very happy.

            I submitted some of my manuscripts again, though not to the same publisher as before, for I felt another rejection from that same editor would crush my spirit beyond all hope of repair.  I was more selective this time, choosing only those pages that had been caressed by the gentle touch of Mr. Tide.  I waited with deep anxiety, hardly able to concentrate on my work while my writings, my dearest children, lay in the hands of a stranger.  Some weeks later, I received a thin envelope.  I slit it open, dreading to see another refusal penned with bitter scorn.  Instead, I was astonished to see a check within the envelope, along with a short note: “Good stuff.  Will pay for more of similar kind.”  My heart leapt, and I laughed long and loud, while within my heart I heard Mr. Tide laugh as well.  If I could only have guessed the portent of that chortle, how would I then have responded?  Would I still have laughed, or would I have recoiled in horror?

            The next day, I began a new piece, an essay of grand exultation.  For many hours I slaved over my paper, slowing at last as I carefully thought over my next words.  I will often do this, taking several minutes, and even hours, to peruse my thoughts before transcribing them upon the page.  As I contemplated, I felt a sense of impatience from Mr. Tide, for at times I could feel his thoughts even when he was not in full control of my body.  At last he spoke to me.  While you think of what you shall write, let me do my work, he begged.

            I was surprised at this request.  Before, he had always been content to wait on the edge of my mind, preparing to amend my work only upon its completion.  Yet, I could see no wrong in this early commencement.  I allowed him to take control of my hands, and at once, his eyes gazed upon my work.  It seemed that he worked with some unexplained haste, as that of a child who fears to be caught in the middle of some misdeed.  Yet, I saw no reason for this, for what offense could the benevolent Mr. Tide commit?

            Some hours passed, until I was at last sure of the words I would pen.  Before I commenced writing, I chose to examine Mr. Tide’s handiwork.  I was surprised and even perturbed by what I read.  No fault could be found with the essay on counts of style or grammar, yet, I could not but feel that it lacked some certain emotion that I had placed in it with my original words.  Still, I decided that, in retrospect, the presumed beauty of my work must have been the fault of my own pride-blinded eyes.

            I started to write again, but as I began a new passage, something stayed my hand.  My inner self suddenly spurned the words I wished to scribe, for every sentence seemed loaded with fallacious logic and horrendous grammar.  For hours I slaved, scratching out every slightest misspelling, analyzing all paragraphs before they even reached the page.  For now each word passed beneath the watchful eye of R. O. Tide, and I could not loose him from my mortal frame!

            Late in the night, I slept at last.  My body convulsed with the tortuous wrenching of my internal organs, as my mind evicted Mr. Tide only with great violence.  When I awoke, my thoughts were in a blur, and I could scarcely remember the events of the previous day.  Red ink staining my walls spoke of the wretched passion from which my possessor had been drawn.  Upon each page of every manuscript was scribbled “poor grammar,” or “we have no use for this material at this time,” or “rewrite”.  Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite!  The gross bane of my existence now poured forth from my own fingers.

            Thus did the days pass; every hour, the monster grasping at my soul, and finally my resolve crumbled and I no longer rejected him but embraced his sordid desires until, even in those moments when my mind was my own, I could not gaze upon a printed page without snatching it up and devouring it with jaws of correction and erasure.

            I fear that I shall never again speak to you as Dr. Henry Pencyll.  That man is gone, consumed by this conglomerate of selves.  This feeble hand that writes a final warning is the only human remnant of the good doctor.  Tide shall come again tonight.  I shall meet him, and if I do not elude his grasp, I shall surely plunge us both beyond the curtain of eternity.  Of a living or dying hell, I shall choose the latter.